A Red Sun Rises
by DayStorm
Summary: Soulmates are rare. Contrary to popular belief, not everyone has one. But for those who do, nothing can keep them apart. They will always - always - find each other. Long-fic AU.
1. Prologue - Seventeen Missing

_***It goes without saying that The Originals – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled The Originals. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Prologue**

 **Seventeen Missing**

* * *

" _A red sun rises . . . blood has been spilled this night."_

– **Legolas**

 _LotR: The Two Towers_

* * *

My name is Rachel Harding.

This . . . is not my story.

Too many people became a part of what would happen for me to call this mine. Too many lives interconnected. A web. I would come to learn that every moment; every single person I would meet had a purpose. We were all a part of a greater game, and as vital as I was to the end of it . . . I never stood alone.

Nothing that comes without cost holds its worth – and what I've found is infinitely precious.

What price is too steep to preserve this? It frightens me, knowing I have no answer to that. So much has already been asked of me. How far can I go before I have nothing left to give? How many pieces of myself am I willing to sacrifice?

I have known pain. I have known fear, despair, and the uncertainty that would follow us for so long. Yet I can't bring myself to regret the decision that would bring me to New Orleans. The moment that began all this. Because I've also known love. Experienced a depth of friendship and loyalty that I never believed was real.

And I've _**felt**_ magic; real magic. This bright power coming up out of the earth, cool darkness and molten heat.

In all my life, I never imagined I would become a part of something so incredible.

The joke is that I was not dissatisfied with my life before this. There was no secret yearning for adventure. No desire for bigger or better things. I was happy. The predictability of my life reassuring. Home. School. I had friends. A family who loved me. Things were good and there's something to be said for certainty. For knowing what's expected of you.

And then everything changed; and I never saw it coming.

It was the fourth of May. The day my cousin disappeared.

Erin Jameson.

She was family. Friend . . . best friend. No one in the world I was closer to, and no one I trusted more. That closeness had always been there; a connection. Or maybe just this understanding that neither of us had to go it alone.

So I believed.

Things were changing long before I came looking for her, and the more they did the more I started to think I hadn't really known her at all.

Erin was fearless.

An active participant in her own life, she got things done. Made things happen. Where I was practical, she was _**driven**_. I used to think she was the sort of girl who would grow up to climb Everest; only so that she could say she did it.

Erin and my aunt, her mother, lived in the city of New Orleans. They moved there shortly after the death of her father when we were kids. A fresh start, away from the memory of the man they both loved.

My father joined them shortly after; moving south to be closer to his sister. My parents' divorce leaving me with my mother in Seattle, Washington. Three thousand miles away and clear across the country.

Every summer in July, for two weeks, I visited my dad.

Saw my cousin and my aunt.

My family divided but still, somehow, whole.

Thinking back on it, with the things I know now, I can't help but wonder if I was being drawn to the city. Like a part of me was waiting. Patient, unawares, but still . . . waiting. Some part of me knowing that that is where I needed to be.

And then Erin went missing.

She disappeared right off the face of the Earth. Just gone.

She was not the first. She wouldn't be the last. The papers were calling them the _Seventeen Missing_. Seventeen teenagers disappeared in the space of a few weeks; each snatched right off the street.

Abductions so sudden, it was like these people would pass behind a telephone pole and never make it to the other side. No witnesses. No evidence of what happened to them. They were just gone.

Aliens were blamed. So was voodoo.

The police pursed more likely scenarios; suspecting a network of human traffickers working the city. It made sense. A perfectly rational theory. For the first time in years I meant to stay home that summer. I really did.

Instead I went to New Orleans one last time, never intending to stay . . .

. . . unaware of the terrible sequence of events set in motion the moment I stepped out my front door.

* * *

 **XxXxXx**

* * *

 **Quick Word from Day –** _"A Red Sun Rises"_ began just over two years ago; as an idea that was too big – too elaborate – for the amount of planning I'd originally put into it. The story got so lost, the plot so muddled that I've had to overhaul the whole thing just to make sense of it again.

ARSR is the one that stays with you, that sinks its hooks in and demands that you tell it properly. This overhaul is designed to better reflect my original vision; a lot has been added, for substance but also to repair some of the confusion from the first.

I truly and deeply love this story.

Best,  
Day

* * *

For those who are interested, _"A Red Sun Rises"_ has its own _"official"_ fansite packed full of content. Updated regularly. Fanart, gifs, videos and playlists.

The "url" for this site is located on my Profile page. Just copy/paste it. (FF no longer allows links that take you off-site, so posting the url is the best I can do.)


	2. Chapter 1 - Bourbon Street

_***It goes without saying that The Originals – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled The Originals. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Chapter 1**

 **Bourbon Street**

* * *

 _I will remember you  
_ _Will you remember me?  
_ _Don't let your life pass you by  
_ _Weep not for the memories_

– **I Will Remember You  
** Sarah McLachlan, Lyrics

* * *

Cold water dribbled off my chin.

It tasted stale, flavored with the saltiness of my sweat. My skin flushed with heat and there was no escaping it. New Orleans steamed with humidity, to where even within the air conditioned rooms of my aunt's house there was no relief from the sweltering Louisiana summer.

It crept in around doors. Radiated through windows in searing white waves so that the glass felt molten beneath my hands.

Sweat stung my eyes, hot on my skin.

My aunt's house was an established bed and breakfast located right off the famous Bourbon Street in the heart of the French Quarter. Relatively small, it offered only a few rooms to rent, although with a dining room and working kitchen, her little B&B doubled as a restaurant.

Noises from downstairs, a heavy thump right beneath my feet and I squeezed my eyes shut against the jarring. It sounded like something heavy was dropped. I twisted the bathroom faucet and let a cool spray of water flow between my fingers.

Strange that it never occurred to me how dangerous a position I was in.

My aunt had no idea I was even in the building, since I'd timed my arrival to coincide with the lunch rush . . . and my father – the only other person who might think to miss me – had no reason not to believe I wasn't exactly where I said I'd be.

No one knew where to find me, and I wasn't expected.

If something were to happen . . . it would be hours before anyone even noticed I was missing, and with Erin gone and the very real possibility that I would be the next to disappear, it was getting harder to pretend I wasn't scared.

Something else no one knew; she'd written to me.

One old-school letter sent through the mail, dated the day she went missing. On a sheet of yellow pad-paper, written in pencil: _'Come to New Orleans. Save me, Rachel.'_

By every right I should have taken that letter to the police; shown it to my mother. Done something other what I did. This wasn't a game, her letter was evidence.

Resentment smoldered like a coal in my stomach.

I couldn't blame my cousin for going missing, for being one of the Seventeen, but I could resent the position she put me in. Not only by asking for my help, but that she'd drawn their attention to me.

I couldn't explain it, couldn't even begin to imagine how or why . . . but I was sure . . .

It was so subtle, at first. Just this feeling of being watched, distantly, easy to explain away. Someone I loved had been stolen, we had no idea if she was even alive, it stood to reason I would be feeling insecure.

But that elusive feeling of eyes always watching – of being hunted, pursued, relentlessly followed in the weeks following Erin's abduction becoming something I couldn't ignore. Could not pretend this paranoia was imaginary, the result of emotional upheaval.

I could feel them now – all the time.

So I understood Erin's motivation. Could imagine how alone she must have felt; for all the mystery concerning her disappearance, it was clear that she'd _**known**_ she was be taken. I could not imagine anything more terrifying.

To be aware you were about to disappear.

 _ **Save me, Rachel.**_

I was trying.

 _ **Save me . . .**_

Getting myself to New Orleans was pretty much where my plan ended.

I curled my fingers into the sink basin, vision blurring with tiredness. Dizzy from the heat and the magnitude of this thing I had to do. Somehow, against all sense, I was going to find my cousin.

I would bring her home.

 _ **Thunk-thunk-thunk**_

I straightened, eyes snapping open at the solid sound of boots thumping in the hall.

From downstairs came another jarring clatter and raised voices. I swept at the tendrils of damp hair in my face, and switched off the hissing faucet.

Sniffed weakly.

From the other room, I thought I heard a chime.

The tinkling of a bell.

The way Erin's bedroom was set up, the bathroom I occupied was connected directly to her small suite. There was no door, only a colorful curtain she could slide across the opening for privacy. The bathroom itself, painfully tiny and like a damn furnace in this heat . . . I'd left the curtain open.

There hadn't been any reason not to but again, I had to remember that I was not supposed to be here.

I set the damp washcloth aside and moved into Erin's bedroom.

Bars of searing white lanced through the blinds I'd closed against the pitiless sun, cutting over the bed to crawl up the opposite wall. Motes floated in those beams like fiery embers, the sight causing a fresh swell of heat to roll through me. Sweat stinging on my skin.

 _ **Thunk-thunk . . . thunk . . .**_

The heavy footsteps continued to the end of the hall, stopped.

Uneasiness became something quite a bit more substantial and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck, my scalp, my arms, stand straight up. For a single mind-numbing instant I thought someone was in the room with me.

But that wasn't it.

The bedroom door was open.

Not by very much, a few inches. Enough for me to see straight out into the hall.

 _ **Thunk. Thunk.**_

I hadn't done that. Who sneaks into a room and leaves the door cracked?

My palms were sticky. I moved to the door, laying one trembling hand on the warm brass knob and heard the heavy booted steps _**thunk-thunking**_ back down the hall towards me.

I released the knob, backing uneasily away.

There shouldn't have been anyone upstairs, the third floor being where my aunt lived with her daughter. Strictly off-limits to guests. Fear tightening a knot in my stomach.

 _ **Thunk-thunk-thunk . . .**_

Closer. Closer . . .

I would never find the words to properly explain what I felt in that moment. A clench of panic in my chest, like a hand closing around my throat. Against all logic or reason, I felt I was about to die. That something monstrous was coming down that hall.

I didn't believe in monsters.

I never have.

As quickly as it came, that clear certainty evaporated though the presence remained.

 _ **Thunk-thunk-thunk . . . thunk-thunk . . .**_

They were coming. Those heavy, precise footfalls like a drumbeat too loud they were more like the pounding of a headache than of feet on a floor. Heart in my throat, dizzy from the rush of blood in my head I backed further away from the door. Eyes locked on that inch-and-a-half opening . . .

 _ **Thunk.**_

Nowhere to go.

I was cornered. Trapped in a room with no way out . . .

. . . trapped in a room with _**one**_ way out.

My gaze slid to the window.

* * *

This was not the first time I considered launching myself out a bedroom window.

Erin had been spending the winter holidays up in Seattle with my family. We were seven years old. It was Christmas Eve, and the twinkle of colorful lights and holiday music crooning from the TV downstairs made for a wonderful backdrop to our mischief.

It was only supposed to be a joke.

A bit of fun between cousins, but what started as teasing quickly turned into egging each other on. We were going to jump out of my parents' second-story bedroom window.

There was deep snowdrift directly below, to catch us when we fell.

I remember leaning out into the December cold, with the wind pinching my cheeks and burning the inside of my nose. The snow had seemed faintly surreal; shining in the lamplight from the back porch. Ice crusting the surface of those desert-like dunes in my backyard.

A crystal shimmer.

It looked so soft. A cushion of cloud that would wrap around my body when I fell.

As a kid, I imaged that I would land in a harmless little _**poof!**_ of powder. It wasn't until I was older that I realized how badly I might have hurt myself. Fortunately, neither of us had been quite brave enough to jump that night.

 _ **This**_ was nothing like that.

The blinds were shut against the white rays of the afternoon sun. I shoved them aside. Pushed the windowpane up, up!

Muggy hot air gusted into the room, and right away I felt the prickle of sweat forming on my already sticky skin.

I climbed onto the windowsill and sat down with my legs dangling out. Fear rose a bitterness that burned the back of my throat. Sweat stinging in my eyes. My hands were shaking so I could hardly hold on, having to curl my fingers around the sill.

The ground seemed so far away.

My hair tangling in a stiff wind that made my body sway, threatening to pull me right off the ledge. The scent of hot concrete and roasted garlic at once familiar, reassuring, and frightening because it meant outside. I was so near to getting away . . . all I had to do was jump.

Jump? Fall.

Fall thirty feet to the pavement.

 _ **Thunk-thunk-thunk.**_

So near, paranoia itching the skin between my shoulders.

 _ **Thunk-thunk.**_

I released my hold on the windowsill and kicked off the ledge.

The initial fall was terrifying. A quick whirlwind of hot air and the brutal clutch of gravity. A sharp pain when I hit. On instinct, I let my legs give out from under me so it lessened the force of impact. I dropped to my knees, scrapping the plams of my hands on dirty asphalt.

My chest rattled on a swallowed sob.

I couldn't believe I actually did it. Could not believe I leapt out a window – to escape a noise. To escape a feeling. Terrible feeling. The worst part of being hunted was in not knowing what would happen to me if I was ever caught.

No one who disappeared had turned up. Not one.

I scanned the lengthy alley that cut behind my aunt's inn. The smell of garbage from an overflowing trashcan steamed in the sweltering summer heat. Beyond that; the bright rectangle of light from where this alley came out onto a busy street.

My heart gave a sharp double-tap at the sight of the people passing by. Normal people, crowds of people. The temptation to go that way had my feet moving before I could stop them, even though the quickest way out was in the other direction. Back around the front of the Inn.

My shoes scuffed the pavement. Unsure of which way to go.

Going to the front of the building would place me right in the path of anyone looking for me. Could I risk the longer walk, and the anonymity of those bustling crowds?

Where was safe?

Alone in a narrow, shaded alley in the French Quarter . . . I was actually fairly isolated. No one would see anything, if something were to happen to me here. I was going to disappear. Just like Erin.

Just like the others.

 _Keep moving!_

I took a step –

"Not that way."

The voice drifted sedately to my ears, piercing as a scream in the relative quiet. I froze; my body locking up even as my brain shouted _**RUN**_!

A million years of survival instinct at its absolute finest.

I prepared for the slam of boots on pavement, big men running after me. But when only silence followed . . . I dared to look.

My eyes swept the alley and I completely missed the boy on the first pass. It was the strangest thing; I had this clear line of sight, he wasn't hiding, but it still took a second too long to notice him standing right there.

At first glance he was just a guy. Older than me, though not by very much. He was boyishly good looking, with a sweep of soft brown hair falling into candy blue eyes. Suspicion threaded through me. He had to have seen what happened, watched me jump. What was he doing back here?

I edged away, careful to keep distance between us. A whisper of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. He said again, "No, not that way."

A chill shot up my spine. Like hell.

I spun away, shoes scuffing on hot asphalt and –

 _ **WHACK!**_

– collided squarely with a wall.

Two strong hands closed over my arms; holding me up where my knees would have buckled at the shock of collision. Not a wall, but the solid chest of a man. Something inside both of us trembled at the contact.

His solicitous grip tightened painfully around my upper arms, and I had only a fraction of a second to recognize a scent like juniper before the world shattered and I tumbled into eyes as dark and vast as the night.

* * *

 **XxXxXx**

* * *

 **A/N -** I would like to thank the amazing and wonderful missjanuarylily for making the cover I'm using as my "A Red Sun Rises" icon. Absolutely beautiful piece. She deserves alllllll the recognition :3 I love that cover.


	3. Chapter 2 - Elijah

_***It goes without saying that The Originals – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled The Originals. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Chapter 2  
** **Elijah**

* * *

 _You fascinated me  
_ _Cloaked in shadows and secrecy  
_ _The beauty of a broken angel_

– **Warrior  
** Beth Crowley, Lyrics

* * *

It was incredible.

Just this rush of _**power**_.

The initial shock like a crack of lightning. I felt heat sizzle through my body, burning a path over the network of veins beneath my skin. Painful, at first, but that quickly melted into something fluid.

Like liquid light. A living energy clawing at the underside of my skin. A clench in my belly. Luscious heat. Indescribably intimate.

My lips parted. A breath escaped . . .

. . . and the world blew apart.

A million glistening shards. A sudden, violent yank forward and I was falling; tumbling through a vastness that was not emptiness but so full of sound. Whispers. The memory of voices like ghosts brushing past, sensation cushioning my consciousness.

All around a veil of impenetrable darkness. A depth greater than the empty spaces between the stars. I was not afraid.

My whole life, every second lived from the moment of my birth to now . . . all of that fell away.

The tranquil darkness receded and my head filled with the scents of a summer wood and sparkling water. I heard children laughing and the low, mournful keen of wolves. I felt sunlight on my skin, the taste of fragrant herbs in my mouth.

My vision swam, every nerve tingling with new awareness. I felt the calm of existence, tempered by the fury of living. Passion and heat; to live was to burn, to rage, to be _**consumed**_.

I saw the rapid whirl of galaxies colliding in a spray of molten heat and fire, fury beyond comprehension.

I wanted to pull away, to turn my head and shield myself from that incredible light but there was nowhere to go. It was everywhere; searing straight through my body with pitiless intensity. Things moved in that fire. Memory.

I saw it all, too fast to make sense of any of it. One lifetime. Two. A thousand lives lived, in the space of seconds.

My mind began to buckle beneath the onslaught. Too much. I couldn't contain it all . . . all of it information. Details of a life that was not my own.

We became one.

Melting into one another as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and for a single glorious second of pure completion, we were whole . . .

. . . and then it was over.

* * *

Silence.

The hot breeze wafted, sweeping a fine layer of sand over the asphalt. It lifted the hair off my neck, cooling the burn that continued to hum beneath my skin.

I clung to the bricks of the wall at my back.

In all my life, I had never felt anything so incredible and I knew that I never would again.

An awareness like nothing I had ever known, could have imagined; to be so acutely aware of another person. I could feel him _**breathe**_. Feel every rapid beat of his heart reverberate through my body, an echo of my own.

I lifted tired eyes to the man standing across from me.

 _He's beautiful,_ I thought numbly.

Seductively, sinfully handsome. The hard, sharp planes of his face aristocratic, cut with lethality. Like some dark prince peeled right off the pages of a steamy fantasy.

The wind teased in his hair, combing through strands that were a hundred shades of brown and black. Ebony, oak, jet and earth. My hands itched to touch it, to run my fingers through his hair and feel it cool against my skin. To see if it was as soft as it looked.

Eyes so dark I'd mistaken them for black.

They were brown; quick, intelligent eyes that bore into mine and for just a second, it was as if he knew me.

I stared straight back, captivated by those eyes and it was as if something deep inside me, some previously undiscovered corner of my own soul, unfurled like a flower turning its face to the sun.

For the first time a light was shed on that secret place and it felt wholly right.

As if waking from a dream, the world around us seemed to slide back into focus. The heat, the sting of sweat on my skin. The tantalizing spiciness flavoring each breath, of garlic and onion and grilling meats, over the tang of stale beer spilled on cobblestone.

I could hear the clack of hooves from mule-drawn carriages in the Quarter. The pitch of voices, laughter and music.

The city so alive.

So distant.

I straightened slowly, forcing my aching body to pull off the wall.

 _ **He**_ hadn't moved. Not since releasing the grip he held on my arms.

I noticed beads of sweat glistening; spiking the short hairs at the nap of his neck. That and a slight, slight tightening around the corners of his mouth were the only outward evidence that we'd shared this experience.

There was tension in his stillness.

Tension in mine.

Tension that couldn't last, not in this kind of heat and I was the first to break it releasing the breath that burned in my chest. _**He**_ moved when I did, strong hand sliding from the front of his suit jacket where he'd held it.

I stiffened reflexively.

"Don't touch me."

Whether he meant to or not, I don't know. Those were the first words I would ever say to him.

What he said, "I'm Elijah."

Hearing his name for the first time . . . that voice, darkly accented . . . felt profoundly intimate. As if more than a name had been given with those words. I was not prepared for the effect hearing his voice would have on me.

"Rachel," I managed. "I mean, I . . . I'm Rachel."

"Rachel," he echoed softly, saying the word like he could taste the syllables. Savoring them. The feel of them in his mouth.

Cool trembled beneath my skin, soothing the fevered heat of a midsummer in Louisiana. A hot wind gusted, the breeze tugging on my sweater damp with sweat and I heard the clack of blinds knocking on glass.

Of all things – _**that**_ is what lifted the last of the fog from my mind and everything came rushing back. Elijah pressed from the forefront of my mind, I remembered what I'd been doing. Where I was going.

I dived out a window.

Running away, trying to escape; escape a feeling. The sound of heavy boots thudding, drawing nearer and the panic tightening like a fist in my chest. I hadn't actually seen anyone.

On the heels of that thought I became suddenly aware that the palms of my hands stung. They'd been scraped raw on the rough asphalt where I landed.

My ankles were sore.

I met Elijah's piercing dark gaze, a coil of suspicion to slipping past the deceptive warmth of familiarity.

"Were you waiting for me?"

Surprise ghosted over his expression. "No."

"What were you doing back here?"

Elijah was silent, dark eyes leveled on mine.

That fast I knew he'd seen what happened.

He saw me jump. Now whether he saw it or he stood and _**watched**_ me jump was open to discussion but I couldn't lie. He knew.

I raked a trembling hand through my hair, and glanced quickly up at the window three stories over my head.

 _ **Clack-clack-clack.**_

A hot wind tugged on the blinds, pulling them partway out. Rattling on the wall, the glass panel. A chill like apprehension swept down the length of my spine, the creeps. Other than the curtains, nothing moved but couldn't shake the feeling that I was still being pursued.

I hadn't gotten away.

Our eyes met again, a question in his. He noticed how I hugged the wall, flattening myself against the warm bricks and interest moved behind those impenetrable dark eyes.

 _Interest,_ I thought in growing alarm. _Not curiosity._ _ **Interest**_ _._

"I have to go," I said stiffly, owing no explanation but having to break that loaded silence. The weight of his stare like a physical touch.

His response was smooth; butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. "Where do you intend to go, to forget those things you saw in my mind?"

In his mind.

What I saw . . . in his mind . . .

I shivered.

"What did you see?" he asked me.

"You don't know?"

That surprised me only for so long as it took to realize; I didn't know what he might have seen in _**mine**_. I couldn't remember the things I'd seen, might have seen. The memory already fading, like smoke through my fingers.

I'd felt warmth.

I felt –

"– whole," the word slipped past my lips without any thought going into what I said. Whether that was even the right word to describe what was there, just out of reach.

The blinds rattled. The wind whispered too hot, too humid.

Elijah tilted his head, accepting that but the quiet intensity never wavered. "If I asked you not to go?"

"Would you stop me if I did?"

"No," he said slowly. "No, I wouldn't stop you."

Good answer. It would have been a better one without the hesitation. Elijah made as if to step forward, paused at the warning in my quick step back and cut a tight smile.

"Meet with me," he said instead. "Tomorrow. Wherever you like."

"Why would I do that?"

"Why would you refuse?" he countered mildly, and then, "Because you're not ready to speak with me. You're frightened. Bewildered. You don't understand and the combination makes you unwilling to accept what you already know."

Frustration smoldered, an ember burning a hole in my heart.

Not at the implication, but that I was never very good at lying to myself. There was truth in his words, as harsh as they were. He was right.

"I can tell you, what passed between us." Elijah allowed a soft smile, dark eyes lowering. "I have your answers."

I considered him. Not naïve, never particularly trusting, I played this game well enough myself to recognize manipulation. Elijah was motivating me to accept his invitation.

My skin hummed with invisible energy.

Power coursing like liquid light just beneath the surface.

That was real.

I couldn't imagine what this was, what it would mean, or why it felt as if every cell in my body strained towards him . . . but it was real.

 _Meet with me. Tomorrow._

 _Wherever you like._

My choice.

Elijah said nothing, not even a whisper to intrude as I made my decision.

Why should I accept? What possible reason did I have to refuse?

If he wanted to hurt me, kidnap me, kill me . . . here was the place to do it. Alone where no one would see.

The wind gusted, a stiff slap at my back that pushed my hair forward. Long strands sliding over my shoulders.

Sand swayed, currents dancing over the white-baked asphalt.

"Are you lying to me?" I asked him, my voice scarcely more than a whisper. I cleared my throat, sweeping tendrils of sweaty hair from my face and said, "Tomorrow, 'round nine. I'll be having breakfast at _Café du Monde_. Will I see you there?"

"Yes," he said, dark eyes softening. "You will."


	4. Chapter 3 - Thunder Rolls

_***It goes without saying that The Originals – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled The Originals. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Chapter 3  
** **Thunder Rolls**

* * *

 _The city's lookin' like a ghost town  
_ _On a moonless summer night  
_ _Raindrops on the windshield  
_ _There's a storm moving in_

– **Thunder Rolls  
** Garth Brooks, Lyrics

* * *

 **ELIJAH**

The air hung visibly heavy, humidity thickening as the brutal heat of the day began to bow. The night humming with tension.

There was a storm on the horizon, fast approaching.

 _More than one,_ Elijah though.

Darkness brought with it, among other blessings, the benefit of prevailing shadows.

Secure and invisible in the lengthening dark, Elijah watched werewolves slip noiselessly through the Quarter. The streets here were narrow, perpetually crowded and loud.

The wolves moved like ghosts, half-seen and gone with hardly a whisper to show for their passing. They circled, eyes glinting predatorily under the festive lights of the French Quarter.

Elijah knew why they were here.

A werewolf child had been stolen today.

She wasn't the first.

She _**was**_ the youngest, and the wolves were out for blood. These were scouts; sent ahead to clear the way for the warring party who would not be far behind.

The least conspicuous of the pack, mostly adolescent led by a single older member.

Elijah drew a deep breath, refreshed by the breeze sweeping off the river.

In the distance were the glistening towers of the inner city, and behind that bruised yellow clouds holding the last rays from a quickly setting sun.

Not a particularly lovely dusk. The storm was moving too quickly.

The abductions plaguing New Orleans had begun months ago. What had been a human problem spread to the supernatural inhabitants of the city, and tensions could not have run any higher.

The witches blamed the vampires for their missing youths.

The wolves were blaming the witches . . .

. . . and the precarious peace that'd descended over New Orleans had started to buckle beneath the weight of suspicion.

Centuries of distrust poisoning this already uneasy ceasefire.

A roll of thunder so deep it came up through the ground shook the city, flattening the sweltering heat that'd held them pitilessly for weeks.

The first breath of rain-scented wind heralded the storm's arrival.

Elijah dropped from the roof where he waited, landing lightly on the pavement below.

The wolves saw him at once.

They paused, the three adolescent fanning out behind the adult male in charge.

They were well-trained, these wolves. Four pairs of glistening eyes fixed on him. Caution. Little aggression.

An encouraging start.

"Gentlemen," Elijah greeted amiably. And to the single female, "A pleasure."

The adult male, the one in command, was lean. A body built for swiftness rather than power, with a weary cunning shadowing his expression. Elijah knew to direct his questions that way, but his charges were a vulnerability that were open to exploitation, should the discussion turn.

He sincerely hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"The ban on the wolves in the Quarter was lifted," said the male, tension deepening the already rough timber of his voice. "You have no right to challenge us, _vam-pire_."

"Certainly," Elijah allowed, returning his gaze to the male. "However, I find myself questioning your motivation, to say nothing of your judgment – provoking the witches to war."

"The witches provoked _**us**_ by taking one of ours. Have the _vam-pires_ thrown their lot in with them spell casters."

Elijah paused a moment, sensing the wolves' hackles rising.

He wasn't without sympathy for their pain, their frustration. Unable to protect their own from this presence stealing their young – spiriting them away in the clear light of day.

Oh, he sympathized. He understood.

But for the sake of them all, he couldn't let this happen.

"You're certain the witches are the ones most deserving of your ire? Would you risk the lives of your people on what amounts to little more than an assumption?"

The male narrowed his eyes on the Original standing solidly in the street, barring their way forward. " _ **You**_ call it an assumption."

The wind moaned hollowly over the city, a breeze which swept down the street in a flurry of prickling raindrops.

Elijah slipped one hand into the pocket of his pants, shifting his weight. He met the man's gaze evenly, no surrender in the decision he was making for them. They were going to leave, or else face the consequences of their decision to remain.

"I am asking," Elijah said "that you take your wolves and exercise restraint. The loss your pack has suffered is unfortunate; however the witches are not responsible for these abductions."

A whip of lightning cracked, followed by a roar of furious thunder.

A whoop of drunken excitement rose from the crowd clogging the streets of the French Quarter, and the cheer was taken up as it began to rain in earnest.

"You sound sure."

The challenge came from the younger female, her eyes firing in the bright flashes of wind-tossed lights suspended over the street.

A rich Spanish brown, those eyes were hard and intelligent. She tilted her chin, unafraid at having drawn the attention of the Original vampire.

Elijah watched her, considering the young she-wolf and his opinion increased at her unflinching calm in the lengthening silence.

The male did not shush her.

In an instant, Elijah recognized the mistake. The adult male was not leading them; it was her. The female. Such a quiet misdirection.

"You are?"

"Margaret," said the female, and nothing else. Unimpressed and unmoved by the power of the creature standing before her.

She met him as an equal, and would accept no less.

Elijah entertained a slow, dark appreciation for the deceptively young she-wolf. "You are not a Crescent."

"No. We're not."

The rain was coming down in sheets, shushing over the street in torrents of icy wet.

It soaked straight through his jacket, flattening his hair and running rivulets down the back of his neck. The wind kicked up, causing the rain to lash sharply sideways.

Margaret didn't wince at the furious stinging in her eyes.

"Where are you from?"

"What does it matter?" she countered. "We're here, and we will not leave without our child. The witches of New Orleans have earned their reputation for savagery and sacrifice. What you call an assumption is not unfounded."

He would grant her that.

"Not unfounded, no. Call it misplaced accusation."

"Misplaced," Margaret repeated, her lip curling contemptuously. "What do you care what happens to the witches?"

"I don't," Elijah said. "I care what happens to this city, and any war that can be avoided is one I intend to quell at the onset."

The wolves moved restlessly, waiting for direction from their leader. Margaret paid no attention to their discomfort, her focus for him alone.

She watched him carefully, considering him with such blatant openness that for just a moment Elijah was reminded of another.

A tremor of awareness rolled beneath his skin, pleasant and warm, while an invisible light deep inside him flared brighter.

It was new, and because it was new it distracted him.

Elijah pressed his hand to the front of his jacket, struggling to pull his attention away from that beautiful shine.

Margaret noticed his distraction.

Tactfully, she said nothing. Her eyes narrowed on him.

"We did not come for war, but we will not shy away from the consequences of our actions. We will defend ourselves."

"Leave this place," Elijah held up a hand before Margaret could voice her objection, "these attacks will not go unanswered. However the witches of this city, for all their sins, are not responsible for the loss your pack has suffered."

A bolt of lightning shot directly over their heads. Brilliant purple fire, dazzling Elijah's night-sensitive eyes.

Not hers. Margaret continued to watch him, a stillness in her eyes – it reinforced his initial impression of her.

Intelligent. Careful consideration; she would make her decisions based on what was best for her people. She had nothing to prove.

"I know who you are, Elijah" she said quietly. "I know you will keep your word, only so long as the threat to your esteemed family is negligible. What that means to me, is that for all the hype concerning your trustworthiness, you cannot be relied upon to manage this situation. We are not your people."

Amusement threaded through Elijah's emotions; at her brashness but also appreciation for the leader of this foreign pack of wolves.

He used what he was feeling to validate the dangerous twist to his smile. "Yet you would risk the lives of those dependent on you to force a point."

"No one will die today," Margaret assured him.

"You sound certain," Elijah said, echoing the words she herself had used to challenge him.

Margaret stepped forward, long legs encased in sodden blue denim.

Her low-heeled shoes splashed in inches of rainwater collected on the uneven flagstone. Elijah allowed her approach, curious and prepared for what she intended.

She laid two warm hands on his shoulders, standing up on her toes to whisper in his ear:

"I know because tonight we will withdraw. But be warned, vampire, we will not leave without our people. Alive or avenged . . ."


	5. Chapter 4 - Soulmates

_***It goes without saying that The Originals – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled The Originals. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Chapter 4  
** **Soulmates**

* * *

 _Break the spell of emptiness  
_ _A thousand years of loneliness  
_ _Bless the path of righteousness  
_ _And walk the trail of holiness_

– **Don't Let Go  
** The Rasmus, Lyrics

* * *

I couldn't sleep.

All night I lay awake, watching shadows dance on my walls. Trying not to think; unable to stop thinking. Sick from the unrelenting heat and my own fears.

This city wasn't right, and there were things happening right beneath the surface. People were missing. Taken right off the street and nobody seemed to know what to do about it. Nobody seemed to even care, beyond the façade necessary to keep the population docile.

Or as docile as New Orleans ever got.

And now, somehow, I'd become a part of that. An unwilling participant in the perpetual strangeness that seemed to blanket this city. I felt a small thrill of excitement at the memory of today.

A fateful encounter behind an inn, in a city where I did not belong. A man with the darkest eyes I had ever seen, he woke something in me that was always there; waiting to be recognized.

It sounded like a story. Like the start of some fantasy, peeled right off the pages of a glossy hardback.

In the questionable cool between two buildings, protected from the worst of the heat and out of sight of the crowds, I became a part of something incredible.

I don't know if I believed in anything like a _**soul**_.

Too practical to believe in anything so abstract, so unidentifiable as souls and spirits and invisible things but I couldn't deny the intensity of what I felt today.

Meeting him was no accident, it was too perfect. There was just the barest whisper of meaning. Of intention. It worried me because I don't believe in fate, either.

What do I believe?

I turned my eyes to the window, blinking past the blur of tiredness.

Sweating and uncomfortable in this furnace of a guestroom, in my dad's tiny apartment where I was staying, the window was closed and I'd been careful to lock it before climbing into bed.

I preferred the suffocating heat of an airless room to the sensation that there was something outside watching me. That's what I believed. Out of all things, against logic or reason, the feeling was growing steadily worse as night fell.

I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't alone – and I _**hated**_ it. Hated how an empty room could feel so crowded. How the silence could seem so full of sound. From the storefront across the street, a string of colored lights cast red and green warbles on the ceiling of my room. Eerie. Beautiful.

There was so much I didn't understand.

Erin's letter in the mail. Stamped and dated the day she disappeared. A man in an alley. Promises made. Unanswered questions, but nothing so far outside the realm of possibility that I couldn't deal.

Nothing, yet, that demanded more from me than I had to give.

Not even this.

A crack of thunder rattled at the window.

The storm broke all at once; releasing a torrential staccato that beat at the glass like it was trying to get inside. Rain distorted the shadows on my wall, turning them into something fluid and malleable.

The imagery was too perfect; _**fluid**_.

My world was changing.

* * *

 **ELIJAH**

At just past nine, the day dawned clear and cool; a welcome relief from the brutal heat of the summer. The city glistening with a crisp, crystal shine.

Refreshed now from the rain and greening with life. Beads of moisture collected on street signs, on windows. Dew sparked off blades of grass.

A stark contrast to the volatility of the night before.

Elijah dressed with care that morning, doing away with his suit in favor of a wine-purple shirt, top three buttons left undone. Black slacks and a glossy black belt. No watch. His daylight ring but that, of course, was a necessity.

He wanted nothing that would distract from what promised to be a particularly trying encounter. Rachel hadn't needed to confess her ignorance for him to recognize she was not already a part of his world.

She was normal. She was . . .

Elijah closed his eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun on his face.

Was it possible to deny the intensity of what passed between them, when even now he was so acutely aware of her presence?

There was a name for what they were, for what they experienced together and that single word danced tantalizingly off the end of his tongue.

It had shaken him to his core. The effect staggering; disbelief combined with naked hope, he recognized what had taken hold of him. He had never experienced it before, would never experience that moment again.

He found himself looking forward to seeing her. Could hardly wait and the novelty of it revived something in him he hadn't felt in centuries.

Elijah saw her the moment she turned into Jackson Square.

 _ **Rachel**_.

Her name reverberated throughout his entire body, that invisible light humming at her nearness.

Rachel moved easily through the crowds of sunburned tourists. Her long, certain strides exuding confidence even as she ducked her head, tucking a curling strand of hair back behind her ear. Betraying her nervousness.

Elijah's lip quirked.

She did not look at him as she passed, keeping her gaze trained on the doors to the café. Her hair feathering out in the damp morning, blown by a crisp breeze. Sunshine seemed to skip off her body, caressing her skin.

She slipped out of sight, into the crowded restaurant without even a nod to show she was aware of his presence. Elijah allowed another small smile, tilting his head in quiet approval.

A test. She wanted to see if he would chase after her.

He sensed apprehension, but also curiosity.

She _**was**_ interested in him, and would return before long reassured by his patience that for now – if not later – it was safe to approach.

Elijah kept his head bowed, eyes fixed on the mirror-like surface of his black coffee. Keen vampire hearing attuned to the multitudes of living, beating bodies around him. The liquid rush of blood, so much more enchanting that the heavy _whoomph-whoomph_ of their hearts.

Musical. It called to him, tempting his base nature in a way no other desire could command.

He entertained himself by listening closely, allowing himself to dance just short of that dangerous edge and then . . . slowly . . . to pull himself back from it.

Rachel sat down in the chair across from him.

She set her iced coffee on the table, ice cubes pressing against the clear plastic of her cup and pushed a small plate of beignets between them. Powdered sugar heaped in a snowy mess over the pastry.

Hazel eyes flashed, unflinching in the bright morning shine.

She kept the challenge out of them. They were quiet today, without any of the fierceness he'd so admired before and that fast, Elijah recognized a quick, deliberate intelligence so like his own.

He met those piercing gray-brown eyes, feeling something lock in his heart he knew would be permanent.

A thing so rare he hadn't dared to let himself actually believe it . . . but he'd been right.

There was no mistake.

She was his soulmate.

* * *

 **RACHEL**

The dark, rich scent of chicory coffee and sweet pastry.

The soft buzz of conversation from other tables, over the louder bustle of voices from the street.

Saxophones and violins competing from opposing ends of the square. The music rising in a crescendo that should have been only noise, but that found a strange sort of harmony; at once beautiful and raw.

It was absolutely perfect.

New Orleans bled atmosphere and this was exactly the backdrop we needed for whatever was going to happen here. With the sun hot on my skin, the breeze cool . . . the sights and scents of the French Quarter a living, breathing energy.

 _Café du Monde_ was not some quaint little coffee shop tucked away in a secret corner of the Quarter, either. I chose this place because I'd been here before.

Located right off Jackson Square, within sight of the gleaming white steeples of the Saint Louis Cathedral, it was crowded and loud and as safe as anywhere to meet a stranger.

Elijah. His name rolled off my mental-tongue and a tremor of pleasure shivered under my skin at the penetrating intensity in those dark, dark eyes.

"I'm glad you came."

Memory hadn't done him justice.

"So am I. Even if sense would argue that I shouldn't have."

Elijah quirked a small smile, tapping lightly on the rim of his coffee cup. Sunlight glinted off the gold of his ring, deepening the color of the little blue stone.

"Perhaps," he allowed. "Still."

"Still," I agreed and drew a steadying breath, "You know I spent the better part of this morning trying to talk myself into staying home."

"What made your mind?"

"You promised me answers."

"Answers. No interest in the mystery?"

"Oh, I love a mystery," I told him and that, too, was true. "But by its definition, mysteries are made to be solved. You said you could explain; that you knew what'd happened to us and I believed you."

Elijah's finger stopped its tapping. He let it rest on the lip of his china white cup with the green _Café du Monde_ logo printed on the side.

"Believing me had little to do with your decision," he countered, with soft certainty. "You sought an explanation, aware that if I did not provide it there was no one who would; making your choice fairly uncomplicated. Hear what I have to say, or else abandon the effort."

 _Or else abandon the effort._

Yeah. That was it exactly.

Rather than respond to Elijah's impressively concise assessment of my motivation, I eased back in my chair; the legs scraping on flagstone, and couldn't have stopped the smile tugging at my lips had I the presence of mind to try.

An answering smile slid over his too-handsome face, diamond hard and dangerous.

Elijah was not a stupid someone.

Neither was I.

My gaze swept the man seated across from me, the summer breeze tugging his plum purple shirt. Flattening the heavy silk to the shape of his body. Accenting the sharp lines of lean muscle. Broad shoulders and the tight cut of a hard chest.

I swept at my hair, brushing trailing strands from my face.

Elijah really was _**striking**_. There was no denying it.

His ring glinted in the clear, bright morning. A single blue stone set in gold, it looked old and like the first time I saw him, I couldn't shake the image of some dark prince from centuries ago. A knight. An assassin.

Our eyes met; his as still and dark as deep water.

"Now that we've established where I stand," I managed, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat. "What do you intend to get out of this?"

He considered me. "Did you think you were the only one with questions?"

Truthfully, I hadn't given it much thought.

Meeting Elijah for that first time – the incredible effect his touch had had on me, my mind so full of images I couldn't even begin to sort through . . . it should have occurred to me that I would present just as great a mystery to him.

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me what drove you out a window."

Oh, well . . . I should have seen that coming.

"Are you serious?"

He was indeed. Elijah plucked his coffee from the table and drank, holding the white ceramic cup lightly between five fingers. I would have thought it was meant to hide a smirk, a grin, a challenge but damn, the daring was in his eyes.

"I looked into your eyes and saw whole galaxies collide, and you want to know why I didn't use the front door?"

"You'll admit," Elijah countered with a ghost of a smile "that was a fairly curious thing to witness."

"I know you saw me jump. Did you miss the part about galaxies, or do you think everyone sees stars when they look at you?"

His lip quirked, hiking higher on one side. A burst of humor softening invisible edges.

"No, I certainly don't think that. However I am interested in hearing your thoughts. What do you see when you look at me, now that the stars have faded from my eyes?"

"You want to know what I think."

Elijah set his coffee aside, "Very much so."

The breeze stirred, pushing currents of loose sand over the uneven paving stones of Decatur Street. The café's green and white vinyl canopy flapped noisily.

"I think meeting you was no accident," I said, my voice barely rising above the pitch of conversation at other tables. The croon of jazz from the street. "I also think you were telling the truth, when you said you weren't waiting for me in that alley."

"Where does that leave us?"

"That's the question, isn't it? You weren't waiting for me, but you were there. What were you doing back there, Elijah, where no one should have been?"

"You intrigue me," he admitted. That rich, lightly accented voice a caress, "and not for the reasons you think. I find it telling that you would choose to meet a stranger in a city plagued with kidnappings."

He let that hang. It did not escape my notice that he hadn't answered my question.

"In a city _**plagued**_ with kidnappings? You're not the only one who's paying attention. If I thought you were dangerous, I wouldn't be here now no matter what promises you made me."

Dark eyes leveled on mine, "What would you do, were you to discover that you were mistaken? That I was, as a matter of fact, _**quite**_ dangerous?"

It was the way he said it, more than the words themselves that stumbled me here. No menace. Soberly – _what if_? What if I was the next to disappear, because I misjudged a situation? Arrogant, secure in my own cleverness and the anonymity of being one face in a city of millions.

I wasn't so sheltered that I didn't believe terrible things could happen to me. It was no accident that Elijah dropped the reality of people going missing. Abductions. Human trafficking. A serial killer . . . people disappearing as if they'd simply walked out of their own lives.

A chill swept through me.

"You're right," I said softly, holding the full weight of Elijah's impenetrable stare. He hiked a brow, but I wasn't done, "We've known each other for all of eighteen hours, and the majority of that time was spent apart. See, you find it telling that I would agree to meet with a stranger; I find it interesting that you took for granted that I would."

"Taken for granted," he muttered, and I could have sworn there was a snort there.

"You couldn't have known that I would keep my word; it was a calculated risk. Or else it would have been, had there been any risk involved. By allowing me the option to refuse, to arrange this meeting and jus never show up, you essentially guaranteed that I wouldn't do that."

"You find me manipulative," he noted "and yet you allowed it."

I had. It was more maneuvering than manipulation; I played this game well enough to recognize the difference.

"Did you think I'd be annoyed?"

He lifted a brow.

"Maybe I can appreciate the tact it took, to do what you did," I offered. "In that alley yesterday, there was nothing you could have said that I was ready to hear. Not after – gah!"

– Elijah's hand shot out, closing over the top of his cup as our tabled heaved; jostled by a woman squeezing past on the densely packed patio.

A jarring distraction.

I sucked in a deep breath, filling my lungs until they burned and holding it there.

Elijah hadn't been quite fast enough to keep his coffee from sloshing through his fingers; he plucked a paper napkin folded under the plate of beignets and mopped at a spill. The woman hurried off without even glancing back to acknowledge that she bumped us.

Rude.

Without thinking, I grabbed a second napkin and moved to help wipe down our table. Elijah's fingers brushed my knuckles as our hands met over the spill –

– and our light _**cracked**_.

Like a bullwhip; I felt it snap from me straight into him, then rocket back with a sharp zing. Emotion, not mine, burst across my consciousness. Confusing, I couldn't have named what they were; it was chaos but chaos with purpose and that should not have made sense . . . but it did.

Because in that chaos, there was also stillness. Focus. Like the bright beam of a searchlight cutting through a storm and I knew, just knew . . . this was consciousness.

Elijah.

Holy shit.

My hand snapped and I caught him just as he started to yank away. He nearly pulled me clear across the table but I didn't let go.

" _ **That,**_ " I bit out. "I'm through sparring with you, Elijah. Tell me what's happened to us, or else I walk away."

Dark eyes fell to where my fingers were curled tight around his wrist, and then slid back up to pin me.

 _Incredulous_ , I thought, _falling just this side of entertained_.

I worried what he would do, if he called me on my ultimatum. Threats worked only if you were willing to follow through; but if I walked away now . . . I would have to keep walking.

Elijah turned his hand smoothly under mine, and my fingers slid from his wrist. He let my palm rest lightly in his cool grip, prolonging the contact and that flicker of elusive light that continued to dance and coil.

How something as substantial as a wisp of smoke could manifest as such a _**profound**_ feeling of connection, I don't know. Elijah's strong fingers curled over mine. The intimacy of my hand in his; I was aware of every breath. The echo of his heartbeat like the flutter of baby wings.

I shivered.

I couldn't help myself.

"I looked into your eyes," Elijah said softly, the pad of his thumb stroking my skin "and the world fell away. What you experienced was the same, and you said you saw stars. Galaxies . . . are you sure?"

Was I sure? No. Not at all.

All at once I remembered the taste of blood filling my mouth. The heat and penetrating light of cosmic fire; glorious, but also terrifying. This all-consuming vision. The sheer memory almost stronger than the reality of the moment I was in.

Air left my lungs in a hot rush.

Elijah's fingers tightened on mine. I squeezed back, afraid that he was about to pull away. My heart thrummed like a headache behind my eyes. His touch steadying me.

"Not stars."

"No," he breathed, so low it was barely a sound.

"What were they?" I licked dry lips. "What happened to us?"

Elijah's thumb did another soft pass over the back of my hand. He said, "What you saw was a fusion of souls, not the collision of galaxies. Yesterday, in a windswept alley in a city of millions we became a part of the rarest phenomenon in the worlds . . . as soulmates."

* * *

As if on cue a cloud passed between the sun and the earth, dimming that crisp, clear morning shine. Silence descended with a suddenness that had my ears ringing; it was as if the whole world were holding its breath, and I braced for something to happen.

A crack of lighting. An earthquake, maybe. The hand of God reaching through the clouds. I don't know. Something.

Nothing did.

The cloud slid away and the pitch of voices returned. A man laughed, a child screamed. Leaves swayed in a stiff breeze wafted the scents of coffee, of people, but also of oil paint and lacquer from the exhibit being set up in the park across the street.

New Orleans in the summer.

This was not my town. And he . . .

"Soulmates." The word felt strange in my mouth. Foreign. Like _fairy_ or _leprechaun_. "Like souls and spirits and invisible things?"

"You don't believe in magic?" Elijah asked softly, dark eyes flashing in the dappled sunshine.

A chill swept over me.

Not unpleasant. Anticipatory. As if I were standing on the edge of a precipice, feeling the clutch in my belly that was not quite fear, but a heady exhilaration. Did I dare step over that edge?

Our light pulsed.

Yes, _**ours**_. I could sense an echo, his and mine flaring at once. In unison. It didn't feel separate at all. Without thinking, I snatched my hand out of his. Ending the contact but not the connection. I shivered from the poignancy of it.

 _Like magic . . ._

Not like magic. This was real. I pulled my scattered thoughts together, finding a foundation in a world that'd very suddenly heaved out from under me and felt the air fill my lungs. A deep breath. A slow release.

"Soulmates. Like Disney? Cinderella. Sleeping Beauty . . ."

"No, not like the fables at all."

"You called it a phenomena," I said.

"What you must understand, is that I have been aware of the existence of soulmates since I was a child. There was never any question. However I do not exaggerate when I say that the soulbond is the rarest of _**phenomena**_ in existence."

Condensation beaded on the cup of my iced coffee, a rivulet trailing a glistening path over the thin, transparent plastic.

"I don't love you."

Of all the things I could have said in that moment.

"I didn't think that you would," Elijah countered. "And while we're being honest, I would be concerned if you did. There is fact in the soulmate myth, but you can be certain that the soulbond _**does not**_ create emotion."

I honestly did not know what to do with what I was being told.

The fantasy associated with that word; soulmates. Of lovers and star-crossed tragedies. My first impulse was still to deny . . . deny it all.

This whole scenario was like something I'd find in a movie. Not a particularly good one. Sitting at a corner café, having met the man of my dreams.

I lifted my eyes, meeting Elijah's gaze from across the length of our small table. My head so full of this moment. The firmness of the bricks under my shoes. The warmth of the sun in my hair; it's heat having burned off the last of last night's rain.

The faint smell of his cologne. Something subtle. Expensive.

The feel of his hand in mine.

I wasn't dreaming. I was wide awake.

This was still happening.

* * *

 **ELIJAH**

Straightening, Elijah almost smiled.

He watched her turning over what he'd said in her mind, accepting those parts she could not deny, and adjusting her worldview to fit. She didn't look happy about it, but she didn't resist. He was summarily impressed.

He'd felt the upheaval. Everything Rachel believed she knew, every facet of her understanding of the world changed from one moment to the next. Her pulse remained admirably steady. The color rising in her cheeks frustration. Not fear.

She made no move to leave.

Elijah picked at his cup. The white ceramic stained. Brown liquid glistening on the table between their abandoned napkins. His hands tingled from the contact with her skin, warmer than his. And the steel in her eyes, when she finally lifted them to pin him . . .

"Okay."

Elijah smiled guardedly. "What would you like to know?"

"How can . . ." she licked her lips, started again, "Just, _**how**_?"

* * *

 **A/N:** _I am sincerely sorry for the length of time that's passed between my updates. Believe me, I'm very aware of just how **long** that delay has been. A part of me feels that this chapter is still . . . incomplete but no. I think this is the right place to end it and move on to chapter 5._

 _Now,_ Chapter 4 – Soulmates _, had originally already been posted but I was so dissatisfied with it that I deleted this chapter intending to re-write it. It felt sloppy, to me. Rushed and weak. The re-write shouldn't have taken more than a couple days lol I don't know how it managed to stretch into a **months** of work._

 _Despite my silence, ARSR is definitely **not** an abandoned fic. I cannot wait to get started on the next chapter. Thank you so much for the patience! (The Originals is ended but "A Red Sun Rises" is going strong.)_

 _Best,  
_ _Day_


	6. Chapter 5 - Eighteenth

_***It goes without saying that The Originals – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled The Originals. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.***_

 **Chapter 5  
** **Eighteenth**

* * *

 _There was nothing in sight  
_ _But memories left abandoned  
_ _There was nowhere to hide  
_ _The ashes fell like snow_

– **New Divide  
** Linkin' Park, Lyrics

* * *

I trailed my fingers over the rough wood of my cousin's bedroom door.

It had once been painted but with age, the paint was as cracked as a dry riverbed. Flakes curling up like chocolate shavings on a cake.

One day passed since I was here last, but oh what a difference a day made. The hallway, the third floor, Erin's room . . . just this _**energy**_. Not so crowded today; absent this terrible feeling of bodies pressing too close.

Unable to shake a growing apprehension.

The whole time, something invisible had been there with me. Something I couldn't explain and wasn't ready to explore. The memory of fear stinging in my sinuses. The drumming of my pulse behind my eyes.

It took all my strength to keep from trembling as I closed my hand over the ornate doorknob of my cousin's room. Unlike in scary movies, there was no piercing screech when I pushed the door open. A small rattle; the hinges were old, the door not so firmly attached to the wall anymore, but no tension-heightening scream.

Erin's bedroom was exactly as I'd left it, which was exactly as she'd left it on the day she disappeared. I swallowed hard, blinking the sting of sweat from my eyes. More a suite than a room, really, complete with its own private washroom and two sections divided by a paper screen strewn with glistening Mardis Gras beads.

The sight of those almost made me smile.

Erin was the very definition of _'ordered chaos'_ and a small, secret part of me thrilled at the beauty of it. It was not a mess, nothing felt discarded – like it needed to be picked up.

A large, rough amethyst sat solidly on her desk behind the black screen of her laptop computer.

Candles in tiny glass jars; some with blackened wicks. Other stones, pebbles and cracked geodes she bought in the Quarter, strategically placed on shelves. On tables. Wherever the light was most flattering.

She loved the rocks. Would text me pictures of her latest find, some small treasure unearth in a dusty box at the back of a thrift store packed with clothes and cassette tapes. I always thought it was more the discovery than the purchase itself that prompted her to share it with me.

The smallest things used to excite her.

Erin was too big for the life she lived, waitressing in the Inn's restaurant. Going to school. Shooting for scholarship because there was no way her mom could afford to pay for college purely out of pocket, no matter how well the business was doing.

God, I missed her.

My heart _**ached**_ with missing her.

A breeze teased in my hair.

The window was open, just as I'd left it. A fresh surge of uneasiness. Plastic blinds clacked softly against the red brick wall.

My gaze landed on a star-themed wind chime suspended from a hook in the far corner of her room. The slow rotation of iridescent glass.

A breeze teased in my hair.

The window was open, just as I'd left it. Elijah wasn't wrong to ask; what, exactly, had driven me out that window? A fresh surge of uneasiness swept through me as I struggled to rationalize that decision to myself.

This creeping fear I couldn't explain, couldn't deny, tightening like a hand around my throat. I'd been sure I was about to die. My gaze swung around to the bedroom door, confusion tripping over the memory of that sort of terror.

Unquestioned certainty.

Something was coming down that hall.

My feet sank into the furry, lime green rug spread over the rough floorboards. What looked like holiday tinsel hung off the back of Erin's elaborately carved oak headboard. Nailed to the wall directly over her bed was a modest, patchwork quilt.

Powder pink, ivory, warm brown with blossoms sewn into the fabric. To say it didn't match was putting it mildly.

Erin's space was pure New Orleans. Beads, feathers, masks. An explosion of color and vibrancy . . . while the quilt so prominently placed was softer. Lovely.

 _Sides_ , Erin seemed to be saying. _We've all got sides_.

A chill crept up my back, like an icy finger trailing lightly over my skin.

 _Save me, Rachel . . ._

How? The only thing she'd left me was that damn letter, folded in the bottom of my luggage under my bed in my dad's apartment. Her bedroom seemed like the most obvious place to start and yet nothing here stood out as particularly important.

No, it was more than that.

The thing that kept me coming back, despite all the reasons I had to keep away. Where was her _**absence**_?

Nothing here felt as if she'd been kidnapped, as if she'd been missing without a trace for months. The sensation was so hard to pin down, I could not have explained it even to my aunt, but Erin didn't _'feel'_ like she was missing.

She could have just popped downstairs real quick to get us a drink, intending to come right back.

Her laptop, an older model Acer she bought secondhand – sat open on her desk. The screen black.

Plugged in.

I hadn't noticed that when I was here before. My gaze followed the length of cord off the side of her desk, to where it curled on the floor, to an outlet in the wall.

No.

No, it couldn't be that easy . . .

I plunked myself down at her desk without a second thought and pressed my finger to the power button. The blank screen flickered and my pulse leapt.

"Come on . . . come on . . ."

The image brightened, cleared. The first thing to appear on the screen was unremarkable. Microsoft Word. I scanned the document but it was only schoolwork. I moved to the Chrome icon – noting the telltale indent showing something was open.

Clicked to bring it up.

Clicked _**again**_. Her computer was glitching. I held my breath, impatience plucking at my nerves but if I forced a restart than I risked losing the last thing my cousin was looking at. Wikipedia. My heart sank but a second tab caught my attention.

' _theadvocate …'_

I clicked on that. Or tried to. The little white curser jerked and froze and flew too far to the right so I had to patiently edge it back to where I needed it.

Erin's laptop whirred under my hands.

A burst of laughter erupted from outside, whipping my head around.

I scanned the room, reassuring myself that no one was standing behind me. That no one had come in while I wasn't looking. The blinds continued to tap-tap against the wall. I swallowed hard, forcing moisture past a suddenly dry throat.

 _Paranoia: table for two_.

Unease pricked the skin between my shoulders.

I turned my back on the room. The webpage for _The New Orleans Advocate_ spread across the laptop screen. A local news source, an old article. I was already wound so tight I almost missed the significance of what was right in front of me.

A color picture of a smiling African American teenager took up a portion of the page, with a roll of text next to what was clearly a school photo.

I froze, fingers poised over the keyboard. I can't say my heart skipped at the sight of him there. That was too mild a word to explain the emotion that yanked every hair on my body erect – because I _**recognized**_ him.

Hell, everyone knew that face.

Anton Reynolds.

He was the first to go missing; the very first believed to have been taken by the people responsible for this. I couldn't breathe. He'd unintentionally become the Face for what was now being called the Seventeen Missing.

My gaze slid to the top of the page, to the date the article was released. May 11th of this year. Two days before Erin was taken. I stared into Anton's familiar eyes, mind whirring as loudly as Erin's dying laptop. It was August now.

Her computer had quite literally been left running for months. Her tired little secondhand Acer; Erin had been so careful to power down whenever she wasn't using it. That was no accident. She'd left it running for me, so that I would see . . . see what?

What did I think was happening here?

It was very possible that there were no clues. That no matter how hard I searched, or how badly I wanted Erin to have left a trail for me to follow, she might not have. Doubt intruded, nearly drowning out my resolve.

I wavered.

Anton's face seemed to mock me. That plastic smile as he posed to have his picture taken. He'd been gone the longest. I brushed my fingers over the screen.

No bodies found. He could still be alive.

 _Save me, Rachel . . ._

Would finding her help me save them all? Or was it too late already, and I was just chasing ghosts?

I lay my hand over my heart, feeling this warmth like a glow just beneath the surface.

 _. . . come to New Orleans_.

Getting on that plane was the most impulsive thing I'd ever done. Going out that window dropped me straight into the arms of a soulmate I didn't believe in. Cue the existential crisis.

"I can't do this," I gritted out, the confession weakening the lid I'd kept on my roiling emotion. I felt the sting of unwanted tears behind my eyes. A sob lodged in my throat.

Despair, the sheer magnitude of the task I'd set for myself.

No time for this.

I swiped an angry palm over my eyes and sat up straight. Doubt be damned, Erin _**had**_ left me a clue. There was no way she just _'forgot'_ to turn her computer off; not when this thing was so old it was a minor miracle it hadn't crashed yet.

I tapped the down arrow key, and the webpage jerked as it scrolled lower. The top of a new head coming into view, beside the bold black print of words. A new name. The second to go missing, this was a list of the abducted in order of their disappearances.

Something banged outside. A flurry of noise and motion, people passing by. Sweat needled the back of my neck.

I pressed the down key again and Erin's laptop fan whirred so loudly it was practically a scream.

The webpage froze.

"No."

I lifted my hands off the keyboard. Panic mounting as the computer made sounds while the screen did nothing. Frozen. Frozen between two faces . . .

"No. No. No."

 _Pzzz._

"No!" I clutched the screen.

Chrome dissolved, the page lost, and I screamed in the same instant as a fresh window unfurled. The little fan whirring, whirring. The window empty white at first.

Please. Please.

 _The New Orleans Advocate_ slid across the screen and my heart started beating again.

I uncurled my fingers from their death-grip on Erin's computer and released the breath I hadn't known I was holding. The date had changed.

August 20th. Today.

Oh, thank you. I was so sure the computer had crashed on me; but no, it had only refreshed the page. I scrolled thoughtlessly down, aware that they keyboard felt hot under my hands. Hearing the whir of the laptop's fan even over the rush of blood in my ears.

"Oh, shit," I muttered.

It was right there. In big, bold, look-at-me black.

 _ **EIGHTEENTH**_ **MISSING IN NOLA -** **Nine-year-old Lilly Hammond reported taken on the 19** **th** **of August, last seen wearing . . .**

Not my fault. I couldn't have prevented this.

She was taken yesterday.

* * *

 **ELIJAH**

In the bright light of the moon; a flat, pale disc behind a tangle of skeletal branches, Elijah waited for the mournful keening of wolves to subside. A dozen voices or more, raised in lamentation. Calling to their missing member – family taken from them.

A child gone.

The Crescent pack milled on the banks of their lake, listening to these foreign voices.

They were wolves wearing human skins, feeling the animal pushing up against their flesh. The Crescents freed of their decades' long curse, but still prey to the light of the moon. It wouldn't be long – minutes, if that – before he lost them until morning.

Elijah stepped from the trees, moving sedately as thirty sets of eyes swung in his direction. Weary. Gleaming in the inky darkness and the weak light of lamps from the cabin. Elijah was careful to keep his hands at his sides, a tight smile pulling at his lips. He meant no harm.

Those glowing eyes never wavered.

One pulled aware from the others. Slim body, thick dark hair and a powerful stride.

"Elijah," Hayley greeted and his smile softened into something more genuine.

Hayley kicked up beside him, her bare feet soundless on the soft ground. She wasn't naked, none of the wolves had stripped of their clothes but doing away with her shoes seemed a wordless acceptance of what would happen here tonight.

She sat at a picnic table, her movements stiff as if her joints ached and Elijah lowered himself across from her.

"D'you hear them?" she asked. "They aren't any of ours."

"I'm aware. Had you come home, I would have warned you to expect them."

Hayley bristled. The wolf clawing so near to the surface, he saw the flash of animal shine in her dark eyes. "Did you need something?"

Need? No.

Elijah wasn't entirely certain what had drawn him so far outside the city – only that he'd felt the overwhelming urge to see Hayley tonight. To assure himself that she was safe, that there was nothing stalking the wolves when they were at their most vulnerable.

Powerful in their animal bodies, they sacrificed their sentience for that strength.

Not prone to paranoia, it did bother him that he'd felt the need to check on Hayley as strongly as he had. A vague fear that something was stalking them. Hayley hadn't been home in days; not uncommon, but tonight . . . he'd needed to be sure.

"Tell your wolves to keep their children close," Elijah said, and Hayley lifted one finely arched brow. He explained, "The Outsiders have lost one of their own."

There was no question as to what he meant. She understood. They would all understand the significance of his warning.

Seventeen were taken the first time and it was such a small number taken out of context. The wolves had lost six. The witches nine. Disappeared without a trace, each lost as if they'd simply walked out of their lives of their own volition.

The pack and the covens were frightened; angry and powerless in their fury. They only just managed to evade a full war. The city would have been awash in blood had Elijah not quickly negotiated a ceasefire.

He was under no illusion. They wouldn't let him again.

Hayley must have agreed, "God, if it's starting over the pack will lose its mind. None of those kids were found, Elijah. The witches'll burn the city to ash."

"Are you alright?"

Such a loaded question.

Hayley hesitated. "I'll come into town tomorrow, after everything's settled down. Yes, I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

He would always worry. Always care. Howls from the dark, warbling on the cool night air. First one, then another and then more voices joined. Crooning heartbroken supplications to a cold white moon.

"Do you think that's what it's about?" Hayley asked, very quietly. She met Elijah's stare with a fearlessness none of the others would have dared.

Elijah didn't respond. There was nothing to add.

He recognized the call to gather a scattered pack. Knew, too, that they were together. It was their missing child they called for; such strong emotion surviving the shift from human to wolf.

Wolves did not understand the concept of _'kidnapped'_ , they mistook it for _'lost'_ and so they called out as if saying _'here we are'_. They were showing the way home, unable to grasp that the child could not come to them.

At the lake, the first Crescent wolf folded over with a cry as his bones broke inside him.

The others shifted uneasily, waiting for their bodies to begin the change. Hayley's attention swung that way and Elijah stood from the table.

"The Outsiders shifted pretty early," she told him. "As soon as it got dark, we started to hear them."

"I know."

Hayley trembled.

In the inky darkness, Elijah's night-sensitive eyes caught the roll under her skin like the ripples in a creek. He saw her muscles knot and a faint musk wafted off of her. Animal smell. Her wolf pushing closer, drawn out by the light of the moon.

She swallowed hard. "I think w-we're done – agh!"

Elijah reached for her, stopped. Uncharacteristically uncertain.

Hayley's breath whooshed out on a pained gasp, though she paid no attention to that. Her eyes lifted to the sky as those distant wolves began a new chorus of howling. Their cries louder now than before, as they were drawing nearer.

Tempted by the scents of the Crescent wolves growing more pungent – the animal musk catching at the back of Elijah's throat.

Hayley clawed at her sweater, her clear human fingernails turning rough black. She drew her shirt over her head, dropping it to the ground and fumbled with the button of her jeans. Removing her clothes so that she wouldn't tangle in them.

Elijah backed further away, ignoring the impulse to hold her as she endured the pain of her body breaking apart. But the scent of vampire would only enrage her emerging wolf. He placed distance between himself and the woman writhing as she collapsed to the ground.

There was nothing he could do for her.

She locked her jaw, denying the scream that trembled in her throat.

He could hear the crackle of her bones beginning to splinter; a sharp _**CRACK!**_ as they broke. The sound of dry wood, when you split it on your knee. Her skin slicked with darker color, and then darker, and then black. The blue-black of wolf flesh.

It was not the first time he witnessed this.

Watching Hayley's body struggle and force itself to change, he felt as if he were losing her.

He thought of that now, while bristles pushed through her skin. Fur growing thick while that luscious dark hair turned silver-gray. Naked and trembling on the ground, fingers curling into the soft marshy soil. Waterlogged earth, it was all just mud here in the bayou.

She lost so much of herself to the night of the moon.

Some memories remained, he knew that. Wolves could recognize family, friends, though vaguely and they would withdraw if pressed. The wolf mind too narrow to encompass the complexity of a human heart.

They felt some. Remembered some. Lost the rest.

Hayley was pulling away; spending more time amongst her people. Would she surrender herself entirely some day, welcoming the wolf that lived in her? The call of her nature.

All at once Hayley released her scream. A piercing wail that quickly morphed into a snarl as her skull split and reformed. Wide silver paws churned the mud into paste.

Cries and yelps rose from the lake. The pack settling into their new bodies, the agonized experience already forgotten. Thirty-four werewolves; distinguishable from regular animals only by the hot inner glow of their eyes.

A large, silver she-wolf lay quietly where Hayley had been but a moment ago.

Her eyes closed tight against the last of her pain, while her spine continued to crackle and pop. Her lips were black. Pink tongue only just sticking out from between her teeth. White fangs glistening in the moonlight.

Elijah held himself perfectly still, waiting for her to become aware of him.

She stood up, unsteady at first. Paws dug into the ground, toes splayed wide so that the thin membrane between them would carry her weight. Golden eyes landed on him. She stepped carefully nearer, suspicious of this vampire while a part of her nagged a faint recognition.

She whined. The sound soft, breathy. Anxious and uncertain.

Hayley was no less beautiful wearing this skin.

Her fur star-washed silver with currents of russet rippled along each flank.

Her legs were long, her body streamlined. This form mirrored her humanity. The wolf as beautiful and fierce as the woman he knew.

* * *

Elijah did not return to the city.

He stayed; shadowing them as they moved like ghosts through the moonlit bayou. Now and again the silver she-wolf would circle around and he'd catch her loping easily alongside. Instinct and wordless emotion recognizing this dark vampire, she came for him as if he were one of them.

Encouraging him to the join the others.

Not to be left behind.

Watching her filled Elijah with a longing he hadn't expected. It wasn't the wolves, exactly, so much as t he pack itself. They belonged to each other, each a part of some greater whole.

They moved like fish in a stream; constantly touching, jostling, communicating without words and Hayley was a part of that. If he were to disappear tonight, he and his siblings swept off the face of the Earth, she would still have a home.

The protection of family.

She had a place. He did not.

Vampires were wanderers not by choice but through necessity and with nothing but time – that endless, forward march towards . . . nothing . . . it left his kind adrift.

Vampires existed while belonging nowhere. To no one.

Yet the desire to _**belong**_ survived the transition. A cruel twist of fate, to lose it all so easily – compassion, empathy, humanity – but never that. Loneliness. Everyone yearned to belong to someone. Hayley moved with her pack, directing them effortlessly without ever pulling ahead.

She led from the sides.

He'd known love. Known lust. Experienced both and enjoyed them whenever he could. Wherever it was safe. They kept the loneliness from overwhelming him and yet not face stood out in his mind. He remembered each vividly; they weren't unimportant.

It was only that no memory seemed worth more than the others.

None but one.

Rachel of the hazel-eyes. There was courage there. A subtle cunning. She'd parried his every word, matching him and he'd delighted in her company. He hadn't dared tell his family what he discovered in a windswept alley between Bourbon and Dauphine.

A soulmate.

A thing so rare it was nearly unheard of.

He would tell them. Eventually. Might have even intended to confide in Hayley tonight.

Niklaus. Rebekah. His siblings' faces flashed in his mind. He didn't trust them, not with this. Out of all of them, Elijah was the one who had never sought love and acceptance with the same desperate fervor as they.

Stoic. Steadfast in his devotion to his family; they were vicious. Petty. Unforgiving.

He would survive their wrath.

Rachel was human. Mortal.

Until he could trust that they would not hurt on her, he would have to keep her secret. Keep her protected.

* * *

"For goddsake, Elijah, answer your damn phone when it rings," Rebekah's voice came through the slim plastic device Elijah held to his ear.

He moved rapidly through the trees, having left the Crescent wolves some time ago. He'd abandoned them to search for the foreign pack; who were even more elusive than the Crescents, but of course they had grown accustomed to his presence.

They were weary, would evade him if he drew too near, but the inherent aggression and fear werewolves felt for vampires had become a sort of reluctant acceptance. He was tolerated.

"What's happened?" he responded, fighting to keep the exasperation from his voice. He'd switched his phone on to find messages left for him dating back hours.

Rebekah, equally annoyed: "You don't know?"

"Tell me," he said. His sister could sulk for days if he let her, finding great satisfaction in withholding information.

Elijah flitted swift and certain through the pitch dark toward the highway, where he had left his car. It was some distance. The pack had been moving in the other direction, deeper into the bayou.

"Your wolves went to the damn local news," Rebekah said, each word clipped as if bit out through her teeth.

He said, "I'm with the wolves now . . ."

"– not Hayley's bunch. Your outsiders. The wolves you threatened last night."

Elijah stopped where he stood, holding his phone pressed to his cheek.

"Can't even call them backstabbing," Rebekah added "they _**told**_ you they wouldn't leave well enough alone."

"They alerted the authorities to their missing child?"

A pause as through the receiver, he heard a sudden cacophony of voices and music overlapping into sheer noise. Rebekah had moved outside, "It's on the television. On the blasted radio. The press is already calling her the _**Eighteenth**_ Missing. One big mess and those Outsiders couldn't have sent you a clearer message if they'd painted you a bloody picture."

"Wonderful," Elijah gritted through his teeth.

This would erupt if it hadn't already.

 _Alive or avenged,_ Margaret had warned him. They weren't going anywhere. He'd recognized the power, the dominance of this young Alpha the moment he laid eyes on her. Framed by the storm. He thought her elemental and unpredictable then.

Message received.

He would send one of his own.

The highway came into sight. His car glistened icy black in the moonlight.

"Have you seen these wolves?" Elijah asked his sister.

"No," she admitted. "Wouldn't be hard for one to slip in, file a report with the police and then slink away to watch all this collapse down on top of us. They're going to start a damn war and we'll be left to clean up what's left."

"I don't think war is what they intend."

Rebekah retorted, "Then they're doing a bloody poor job of avoiding one."

Elijah slid into the car; his face lit by the blue glow of his dashboard display and plugged his phone into the jack. Rebekah's voice came through the speakers, loud and furious.

"The witches don't know that the werewolves were moving to attack them last night. They're convinced the vampires have something to do with what happened to the first bunch. They'll ally with the werewolves against us – like that won't end in gory disaster."

"Not us."

"They hate the vampires, Elijah, I don't think it matters that we Originals are not suspect."

Elijah rested his arms on the steering wheel, laying his head on his seat's headrest. He let his eyes fall closed, emotions heaving in his chest. One after another, a cascade of feeling he was too tired to make sense of. Too tired to even try.

"Elijah?"

"Stay where you are," he said. "I'm returning to the city now."

Mercifully, his sister chose to refrain from arguing with him. She hung up her phone without a word. Busy, annoyed and though she would never admit it – concerned.

Silence descended and he breathed deeply, heartsick as he could see where this was going. War. Rivers of blood spilled. Treachery and pain. Exhausted just thinking about it. He didn't want this but short of removing himself from the equation entirely he could see no way around it.


End file.
